


candles

by fadewords



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: (tho the 2nd one comes up less for reasons of mick-centric), (though i may go back & add some later who knows), Autistic Mick Rory, Autistic Ray Palmer, Gen, aaaaanyway x2: [jazz hands], and as always there ain't no caps bc caps are for Squares, anyway none of this is like, edited at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:46:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: ray decorates the waverider for halloween. mick is displeased.





	candles

mick rory hated candles. hated, hated, hated candles. he always had.

people thought, usually—assumed, usually—that he liked them. that he must like them. that of course he’d like them.

because they had flames, didn't they? and mick rory loved everything with a flame.

and he did.

except candles.

they were the worst.

they smelled too much. like a flower shop threw up. like a bakery farted. like a dozen other things and none of them good.

and he’d tell people this, if they asked.

but no one ever did.

(snart had, just once. or rather, he hadn’t. it hadn’t been a question.

they’d been in a room full of candles—mick couldn’t remember why—and snart had said, with that narrow-eyed look, “you’re not a fan.”

and it hadn’t been a question, so mick hadn’t answered.

“it’s the smell,” he’d continued—and that hadn’t been one either, so mick still hadn’t answered.

snart had frozen the lot and they’d left room and that had been that. they’d never talked about it, and no one had ever asked again.)

-

mick stopped.

haircut was half-stooped, messing with a lighter—trying to. failing. couldn’t even get the damn thing to spark.

in seconds mick’s own was in his hand and lit. “need a light?”

haircut blinked in surprise, like he’d been pulled straight from one of the cartoons mick’d watched on saturday mornings, before his dad’d woke up, but after his mom’d poured out wheaties. “yeah, thanks!”

and he held out a bright orange candle.

mick pulled his arm back. “what’s that for?”

“halloween!”

“it’s not halloween.”

“well, not yet, but—”

“whatever.” mick lit the candle to shut him up and left.

-

mick found ray struggling with another one a few minutes later, in a completely different room. “again?”

ray grinned. “halloween spirit!”

mick grunted and left again, this time without helping.

-

mick took his sandwich to the library. time to pick up dracula again—he was due a re-read, and had spilled sauce all over his last copy.

but he didn’t find dracula. instead he found another—found no less than  _ four  _ more candles.

too many. with jack o’ lantern faces on the glass now, as if to rub it in that this was for  _ halloween _ , in case he’d somehow forgot.

halloween.

bullshit.

halloween was for costumes and candy and scaring the shit out of people—and for heists while people were distracted with that stuff. it wasn’t for this many candles—hell, any candles at all—not unless you were some kind of witch.

or haircut. apparently.

maybe he was a witch.

mick amused himself with thoughts of haircut in a pointy hat, on a broom, shrieking about eating children, for a long, long moment before shaking his head, scowling, and leaving the library empty-handed.

he could grab dracula another day.

-

he went to his room to write instead.

emerged for another sandwich. smelled, before he saw, another candle in the kitchen.

things were multiplying.

he made his sandwich and got the hell out before he could lose his appetite entirely. retreated back to his room.

ate. glowered. felt the pressure build between his eyes. thwacked his head a couple times, to ward it off.

slept.

-

woke. stepped outside his room and smelled pumpkins instantly.

except it didn’t smell like pumpkins at all. it smelled like—not that. like sharp and too sweet and everywhere and the next candle he saw he was going to—

-

he knocked the orange monstrosity off the counter. glass shattered, the flame snuffed out, and the smell lingered.

stupid.

he left the room before anyone could come check on the noise. damned if he was gonna deal with the yelling.

-

a job. finally. he grabbed the gun, headed out, made it off the ship a full six paces ahead of everyone else.

-

they came back too soon. the flames had snuffed out but the smell lingered.

mick watched ray re-light one and very pointedly did not set the man on fire to match.

instead, he glowered at the little flame, watching it dance and slowly turn the room to poison.

he watched it as the others talked. as they celebrated the successful mission. by the time all the talk had died down, his nose had stopped stinging, but his eyes had started, and his skull felt uncomfortably full.

great.

he walked up to the candle as everyone drifted out of the room, and pinched the flame out between two fingers.

there.

-

he braved the library long enough to find dracula, knocked over two of the candles while he was there, then holed up in his room again.

but no use. the smell’d snuck inside.

mick barked at gideon to get rid of it, but it didn't do much good. he could still smell it on his clothes.

he gave up and read dracula instead. kept reading til his head hurt, even with the glasses. kept reading even then, til the letters swam and glancing up made his eyes hurt and the swish of page on page scraped his ears and set his skin crawling.

then he put the book away and jammed a pillow over his head and tried to sleep.

-

“rory!”

he opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. “what?”

“we need you in the kitchen.”

“right.”

he pushed himself up, grabbed his gun, headed over. captain hadn't said there'd be a job, but he could hope.

-

the walk stretched longer than it should've. the walls hummed. the lights droned. his own ears screamed at him twice as loud as usual—tinnywhatsit, snart had said.

(too many explosions, snart had said. and mick would believe him, except that he didn't remember a time his ears hadn't screamed like that. so he had to be wrong. it wasn't damage, mick was just like that. like always, just like that.)

mick thwacked his head a couple times before rounding the corner and entering the room with the others. it helped almost as much as the promise of escaping the pumpkin-hell the waverider had become.

except, it became clear, there was no escape. it was dinner.

a non-optional dinner, he discovered, when he tried to turn tail.

nate caught him by the arm, full steel, and refused to let him leave.

ray grinned. and so did everyone else, all twinkling eyes and no sympathy.

so he stayed. took the seat farthest from the candle. ate a few rolls. grunted when people tried to talk to him. (it didn’t take very long for them to stop trying.)

pulled out his lighter and stared at the flame until someone snapped at him to put it away before he burnt the tablecloth.

why they even needed a tablecloth was beyond him.

he stood and left when ray set a steaming pie—pumpkin, because of course—on the table.

went back to his room, turned off all the lights, thwacked himself in the head several more times, buried himself in blankets, and tried to sleep.

couldn't.

blankets too hot, for once. and not heavy enough. and his head hurt too much and his stomach turned every five seconds.

impossible to sleep like this.

but so tired.

so he lay there and waited for it to stop.

-

it didn't.

the smell was gone, finally, but the headache had set up camp. wasn't leaving.

made everything heavy and gray and too loud.

-

knock at the door.

he ignored it.

-

another knock, also ignored.

someone told gideon to open the door. mick would’ve said “don't you dare,” but his voice wouldn't listen, so he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep instead.

gideon opened the door and turned on the lights and mick did his best impression of a log.

but gideon ratted him out, so he opened his eyes and scowled. tried to. his face felt like plastic.

stupid robot.

mick registered, after a beat, that it was ray.

he raised plastic eyebrows. why are you here.

“thought you might want pie,” ray said, unconvincingly, holding up a plate.

mick rolled his eyes.

“okay, so i wanted to check on you. you’ve been in here a while.”

he rolled his eyes harder and pretended it didn't hurt. grunted. i'm fine, get the hell out.

ray didn't leave. “you don't look good.”

mick grunted again. grabbed dracula—oh good, arms working. held it open in front of his face.

“that's upside down.”

flipped it over with a growl.

“mick, come on—”

there he went again. half-shouting. mick was pretty sure ray didn't mean to, but with a headache the size of a semi-truck mick was also pretty sure he didn't care, so he flipped him off.

ray spluttered. “mick—”

another growl, and another finger, because ray was getting even louder and he couldn’t make  _ shut up  _ come out of his mouth properly.

“okay, all right.”

mick thought that was the end of it, but ray didn’t leave, so he picked up dracula and opened it inches away from his face and turned a page.  _ go away _ .

“you’re not wearing your glasses.”

mick hauled himself upright and chucked the book at him.

“hey!”

but he’d only barely clipped his shoulder (he’d been aiming for haircut’s  _ face _ ). and now his head was pounding again. and spinning. and the ship was droning and the lights were flickering and the whole room smelled like a pie exploded.

—and ray was talking. saying something.

mick waited for the spinning to stop and the pounding to fade and the noise to turn into words—put up a hand to stop haircut from reaching out to do fuck only knew what with that weird look on his face.

“—you sick? you didn’t eat much, was thad eye? owl logg you binfeelee lyedig?

mick shook his head minutely. paused. closed his eyes to think and to minimize the renewed pounding.

owllogg youbin feeleelye—? owloggn you been feelyedigs? how long you been feeling like this.

he shook his head again. opened his eyes.

ray was still making the weird face. pinched. sharp. angry, maybe. wasn’t the usual one, but then ray had a whole parade of angry faces. mick’d been subject to most of them. what was one more?

“can i—?” ray stretched out an arm again.

mick knocked it away.

“then you  _ are  _ sick.”

he shook his head emphatically and ignored the fresh wave of pain.

“right. gideon—”

“mr. rory is telling the truth. there are no pathogens in his system.”

mick hid a wince. why couldn’t the robot have a volume-control setting, she was worse than him.

“then what’s—”

“shut  _ up  _ .”

ray blinked. “so you can talk.”

_ of course i can _ , mick wanted to snap.  _ i’m not an idiot _ .

but not being able to talk didn’t make you an idiot, and just because he  _ knew  _ that didn’t mean he could imply otherwise—especially not on this ship, where everyone else thought it  _ did _ .

that, and he actually couldn’t talk right now. or he could, but not much. and not without effort. effort he wasn’t going to waste on the bastard who filled the ship with candles even after mick’d unsubtly broken  _ three _ .

so instead he growled.

“okay. then what’s wrong? why do you look—” ray waved a hand. “—like that?”

“shut up,” he said again, with less venom.

“why?” ray asked, louder.

mick gripped the blanket tight in his hands to keep from smashing a fist into his forehead. then, with effort, “’m fine, get out, shut up.”

“you’re not—you wouldn’t talk, you barely ate, you’ve been shut up in here all day—”

all day?

“—you’ve been avoiding us for ages—”

mick gripped the blanket tighter, and used every ounce of willpower he had to stop himself from rocking back and forth. settled for biting the inside of his cheek.

“—want to know  _ why _ .”

“because,” he barked. “you won’t shut up.”

“but you were in here before i—” ray paused. “i...am i being too loud?”

mick grunted.

“you have a headache.”

it wasn’t a question, so mick didn’t answer.

“so you’ve been weird because—why didn’t you just say so?”

that  _ was  _ a question, but it was so stupid mick didn’t bother answering it either.

surprisingly, ray seemed to realize it as soon as he’d said it. “right. course.”

mick wondered what ray thought the reason was. how far off he was. or if, maybe, he was spot on—if he went nonverbal too, sometimes. though, of course, he wouldn’t know why. when it came to autistic things, he never did. (for a supergenius, haircut sure was clueless.)

“but why not go to the medbay, have gideon fix it?”

mick snorted. even if he’d been tempted—and he hadn’t, he could handle these things on his own, he always had—it wouldn’t’ve done any good.

maybe gideon could make a magic pill to make the headache go away, sure, or even the overload—but he wouldn’t trust it. and even if he had—even if he had—it’d only come back, so long as the candles were still on board the ship. so—pointless. stupid.

“‘m fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

“ _ you  _ don’t look fine.”

“i’m serious,” ray said. “have you seen yourself? when was the last time you—” he broke off. “when did this start, anyway?”

mick rolled his eyes. scrubbed them once, hard, to make them stop hurting. swallowed. swallowed again. resolutely didn’t look at the pie.

“not today,” ray said decisively. “last night? or after the mission?” he paused. “...before it?” he asked, incredulous. “you’re telling me you’ve been like this for  _ four days _ ?”

four…? the mission had only been two days, hadn’t it? ...but then there’d been the rest of the day, before dinner, and if he’d been holed up all day like haircut said…

then five, actually. counting the day before the mission.

but ray didn’t need to know that, so mick shrugged.

“that’s not—we need to get you checked out, find out what’s causing this. that’s not normal.”

_ it is for me _ , he wanted to say, but didn’t, because that'd require more explanation than he had the energy for. so instead he bit the bullet and said, “candles.”

ray stared. opened his mouth. closed it. “you...ate my candles?”

mick stared. what kind of goddamn— “i ate your—i didn’t eat your damn candles.” why would he even—wh—? he knew ray thought he was stupid, but that was— “no.”

“right. course not, that would be—right. but then—?”

“i broke your damn candles.”

“i  _ knew  _ that was you!” ray exclaimed. then, quieter, “sorry.” then, “...why? you hate halloween that much?” he hesitated. “...bad memories?”

oh god. mick sat up straighter and squared his shoulders, ignoring the still-pulsing pain. he was  _ not  _ about to let haircut go all touchy-feely. especially not when it wasn’t anything like that. especially not when his head was still ready to split in two. “  _ no _ . i just don’t fuckin like candles.”

“...you don’t?”

obviously.

“why not?”

mick stared. “because—” he said, and broke off. “they smell.”

“well, yeah, they’re supposed to.”

no shit, sherlock. "no, they  _ smell _ . and—” he broke off again. did he really want haircut knowing? what if he thought it was funny, decided to light more? what if he told everyone else? and what business was it of his anyway?

“oh,” ray said. “it’s—they give you headaches.”

well there went that.

“right, i—gideon, can you vent the ship? or—not all the air! just—the smell, can you do something about the smell?”

“of course, mr. palmer.”

but nothing happened. his head still pounded, his nose still stung, he still felt ready to hurl at the mere  _ thought  _ of the pumpkin still permeating the r—

“the pie, can you do something about the pie?”

“i’m afraid i—”

“not you.”

“then wh—oh, me!” ray started. “right, yeah, i—” he wheeled around, picked up the pie, left.

mick leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. opened them when ray walked back in an indeterminable time later.

“sealed in the kitchen,” ray said. “and all the candles are gone. and gideon did her thing again.”

mick blinked. “‘kay.”

“so are—did that help?”

“sure.” anything to make him go away.

“that’s a no,” ray said, and it was only half a question, so mick waved a hand. “you need anything?”

“quiet,” he said.

“right. i’ll—i’ll go then. back later. or—not,” he added hurriedly, at mick’s glare. “i could also not.” he turned around and headed for the door. “see ya.”

“wait.”

ray turned back around. “yeah?”

“y'say anything?”

“...sorry?”

“about the candles,” mick said impatiently. “y’say anything?”

“...no? should i have?”

“no.”

“oh, good.”

mick grunted for lack of anything else to say. then, just before ray slipped out the door— “thanks.”

ray smiled. “yeah, course. always happy to help a—”

“now get out.”

“right.”

and he left.

mick slid back down on the bed—rolled over, reached down the side of the mattress, pulled the bottle of pain meds out from under it, shook out a tablet, chewed it, made a face, swallowed it, made a face, closed the bottle, chucked it into the pile of clothes nearest the bed, rolled back over, closed his eyes, waited for his head to get fuzzy enough for sleep.

inhaled deeply. no more pumpkin.

hummed.


End file.
